


If You Want to Kiss the Sky (better learn how to kneel)

by shes_gone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Marathon Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-12
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shes_gone/pseuds/shes_gone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because someone's got to teach N.E.W.T.-level Blow Jobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Want to Kiss the Sky (better learn how to kneel)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kath_ballantyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne/gifts).



> Happy, happy birthday, [](http://kath-ballantyne.livejournal.com/profile)[**kath_ballantyne**](http://kath-ballantyne.livejournal.com/)!! Many thanks to [](http://nathaniel-hp.livejournal.com/profile)[**nathaniel_hp**](http://nathaniel-hp.livejournal.com/) for the beta, and to [](http://alreeces.livejournal.com/profile)[**alreeces**](http://alreeces.livejournal.com/) and [](http://midnightblue88.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://midnightblue88.livejournal.com/)**midnightblue88** for reading this and saying it's funny. My apologies to U2.

Ron has lost his mind. Completely effing lost it.

Not that I’m complaining, mind. Doesn’t seem to be a particularly bad kind of crazy, what he’s got.

Rather the opposite, from where I’m standing. Which is with my back to the wall, trousers round my ankles, fingers twined in silky strands of red hair as a long, freckled nose nuzzles at my pubes before I’ve even had time to drop my keys in the dish by the door.

Not a bad kind of crazy at all.

My keys fall from my hand and I wonder just what has got into him, as he nuzzles his way down to my bollocks and rubs his fingers up the outside of my thighs. He slides his hand back to my arse and I move my pelvis forwards for him, slouching down the wall a bit, giving him access to whatever he’d like.

And he takes it, sliding his long fingers possessively over the full expanse of my arse.

He leans down and presses his cheek to my cock - which has sprung to life astonishingly quickly - before pressing a kiss to the crease where my thigh meets my groin, and running his tongue along that same line.

I groan and slide my fingers against his scalp.

It’s happened like this every night for a week, him lying in wait by the front door and pouncing on me as soon as I’ve come in. Pouncing again after supper, and again before bed. And again in the morning.

I probably shouldn’t be surprised; he’s always been enthusiastic about our sex life, of course. _That_ came as no surprise, once I got over the shock of discovering that we were apparently going to have a sex life.

Sexually irrepressible, Ron is, and always has been. But this? This is different. Lately, it’s like he’s set himself some sort of timetable that requires he meet a daily suck-Harry-off quota.

I suppose he needs the entertainment. He’s been bored, I know, with two solid weeks at home. Auror Department policy, after he landed in St. Mungo's twice in one month.

He was quickly fine both times, nothing major - and the second time it wasn’t even because of work. He’d just caught George off-guard with an unannounced visit in the middle of what turned out to be a rather volatile experiment.

But policy is policy, so when a healthy but restless Ron tried to come back to work early last Thursday, Robards succinctly informed him that, should he be spotted in the office again before his scheduled return Monday after next, his employment with the Aurors would come to an abrupt and nonnegotiable end.

And so home he’s stayed. Apparently spending his days watching porn and getting horny, judging by his eager fingers and lips and tongue.

And, please don’t misunderstand, I’m really not complaining, because there’s nothing in this world I love more than Ron’s eager fingers and lips and tongue.

Except his cock. His hot, heavy, _eager_ cock. That he won’t let me touch.

And that’s the thing in all this that I really can’t understand. All week, he’s been giving and giving and giving, and he won’t let me touch him until the very last thing before sleep, when I’m far too far gone to do the job properly. _That_ is not the Ron I know.

He’s always been a generous lover, of course. But this is different.

His tongue is lapping at my pre-come now, as one of his hands slides around to my front, skimming down to my knee before gently scraping a nail up my inner thigh.

I can feel what little control I try to convince myself I have slipping away, and I want to stop him, want to push him back and have my way with _him_ first.

“Ron,” I say, bringing my fingers to his chin. “Wait.”

He grunts his answer in the negative as he’s teasing at my balls, rolling them between his fingers. My eyes flutter shut and I’m all but panting through my mouth, and I’m sure I must be crazy for wanting to stop him.

“Ron,” I manage again, pressing my fingers against his chin to make him look up at me.

Without a word, he grips my wrist and pulls it away from his face, pressing it to the wall at my side. He eyes me sternly for a moment before releasing my hand and returning his grip to my arse.

I want to protest, want to insist that I should get what I want as well, but he pulls my crotch closer to his face, and it’s been a long week, and I’m knackered, and he licks a long, sure stroke along the entire length of my shaft, and, well. I’m only human.

He smirks as I whimper and jerk my pelvis forward, nudging his lips with the head of my cock. His tongue runs around its circumference and he takes it into his mouth, and I can’t remember why I was protesting.

It’s not long before he’s working my cock in earnest. He’s sucking and bobbing and licking, and there’s a hand running up my inner thigh as he tongues at my slit, and another kneading and gripping at my arse as he fondles my balls, and fingers are sliding between my cheeks and teasing my hole and - Merlin, how many hands does the man have?

I should probably be embarrassed by how pathetically short a time it takes for me to come undone - wildly, wetly, hard and hollering - but I can’t quite manage it and, besides, Ron has become really bloody good at this.

When I finally manage to open my eyes, I’ve collapsed and somehow landed in his lap on the floor, and the feeling of his thighs underneath me and arms around me and chest pressed against me is so completely perfect that I think if we never make love anywhere but in the front hall again, that would be just fine.

“Ron,” I pant into his shoulder.

He chuckles as he leans back and looks at me. “OK there?”

“I - yeah,” I say, leaning into the kiss he presses to my forehead. “Ron. What has got into you?”

“Got into me?” he asks, innocently. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You haven’t been able to take your lips off my cock all week.”

He smiles and inexplicably pinks a bit, before shrugging. “Hermione said I needed a project.”

I blink at him. “Pardon?”

“You know, something to keep me occupied until I go back to work.”

“A project.”

“Yeah. Sitting at home all day sounds great, mate, until you try it. There’s not _nearly_ enough Quidditch on the wireless, and the crap they’ve got on Muggle telly's just weird. I got bored.”

“Bored.”

“So when Robards wouldn't let me come back to work early, I decided I may as well listen to Hermione.”

“And she told you to try to kill me?”

“Oh, piss of, a few extra orgasms won’t kill you. No, she didn’t, but I figured I had two choices. Take up Mum’s offer to go to the Burrow every day and help sort out a million years’ worth of crap in the attic, or this.”

“This?”

“Start training to become the world’s greatest blow job giver.”

It’s probably a good thing I don’t have the energy to laugh. “ _That’s_ your project?”

“Yes. And I’ve made quite a study of it, too. Been looking at porn all week, picking up techniques.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Exactly. So I’ll thank you to stop complaining.”

“I’m not complaining! I’m just ... impressed. With your dedication.”

Ron grins smugly. “Yes, well. If it’s worth doing, you know.”

I manage a snigger. “Have you told Hermione? How you’ve chosen to act on her advice?”

Ron’s grin grows wider. “Yup! Don’t reckon she believed me, though. She just rolled her eyes and told me to stop being so vulgar.” I laugh. “I told her I didn’t think there was anything vulgar about becoming a Blow Job Master.”

“Mmmm, indeed. Quite dignified, ‘Blow Job Master’. How much training have you got left, before you achieve that status?”

“Oh, _loads_ ,” he says, eyes flashing and darting down to my groin.

And my cock twitches, which it really shouldn’t, this close to my last orgasm.

“Don’t suppose I could get in a bit of practice of my own,” I say, running my fingers over Ron’s chest, “while your, uh, training wand down here recharges?”

Ron smirks but shakes his head ‘no’. “No can do, Harry. You know I’ll fall asleep as soon as you’re done. I’ll lose the whole night’s worth of practice.”

I can’t argue with that, so I let him stand me up and lead me to the kitchen.

“Eat up,” he says, “you’re going to need your energy tonight.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“It’s Friday, Harry. You haven’t got to get up in the morning, and I’m going to make sure you can’t.”


End file.
